According to Marissa: 1 Samuel 17, David and Goliath
by perrilloux.bf68
Summary: Marissa May found if she read them aloud its words in a soft strong tone, the Bible's life would glow big and bright and make its world her own. Bothered by something at school, Marissa May exchanges places with Shepherd Boy David to learn the mark of a true leader and the value of asking for help. (2-4)
1. Chapter 1

**According to Marissa  
****Chapter One: **

* * *

Marissa May lived in a small little town  
not unlike your own.  
She ran and breathed,  
Ate and sneezed,  
But never was she alone.

Marissa May, though feisty and small,  
With her hair all tangled and knurled,  
Knew where to look  
In the book of books  
To make her world uncurled.

Marissa May, unlike everyone else,  
Discovered when she was little  
That if she looked  
In that book of books  
The words inside would twiddle.

Marissa May found if she read them aloud  
Those words in a soft strong tone,  
The life inside  
Would glow big and bright  
And make its world her own.

* * *

Marissa's mom was worried. It was not an uncommon thing to worry. Everyone did it. The mailman worried about his letters, the policeman the law and the ballerina the tilt of her skirt. It was not uncommon for Marissa's mom to worry either. In fact, she worried a lot. Being a single mom with one unruly daughter and two tiresome jobs, worrying was more than a common thing for her - it was life. What was uncommon was the fact that Marissa's mom couldn't do anything about it. Guinevere would do something, if she could do something, but not knowing what the problem was, she was at a loss as to what to do next. It had been three whole weeks since Marissa started sixth grade and ever since Marissa had been miserable.

Ever since, Marissa would gloomily eat her morning cereal. She would gloomily murmur good bye when she stepped out of the car in the morning and gloomily return again without so much as a hello or a hug. This was much too unusual for her. Marissa was normally a very happy, mildly energetic twelve year old. Once, she was caught marching seven times around her babysitter's house playing her recorder and screaming at the top of her lungs. Now, she only shuffled into the stout messy house with her little brown backpack dragging solemnly on the ground.

Guinevere was worried like any other parent would be, like any other parent should be and as she tucked her child quietly into bed, like any other parent ought to, she whispered a little prayer. She hoped against all hope that someday soon her daughter's solemn silence would break. She hoped against all hope that one day the problem would be discovered and mended. Her prayer was not unheard. It was, in fact, heard quite clearly.

* * *

Somewhere outside of his small little town, which was definitely unlike your own, rested a drowsy twelve year old boy with an old wooden lap harp tucked snugly against his side. The morning slowly passed by and the evening sluggishly followed. He'd squander many days like that. He'd play his harp, sleep against his tree and watch, all the while, the clouds above him drift. He'd muse over them. He'd composed quietly beneath them. To the bleating of his sheep, he'd sing sad simple songs all the while watching the earth's floating cotton roll end over end, like wool dancing on the sea. It wasn't until the third day that he noticed the sudden silence. Even though the sheep about him still bleated, still grazed blissfully unaware, the boy heard the quickening hush race through the grass. It bounded over the stream and hugged trembling arms about his tree. The birds stopped singing. From his place overlooking the meadow, he frowned when he couldn't hear them.

Quietly, steadily, the boy lowered his harp to the ground. Then, he reached for the bit of stick leaning against his tree. One hand cradled it while the other dipped into the bag at his waist. It felt for the small smooth stones rattling within its coarse fabric. He counted them, tallied them while his gaze searched the horizon. One. Two. Three. There was nothing in the bushes. Four. Five. Six. There was nothing in the field by the far mountains. He counted the seventh, the eighth, and the ninth stone as his dark gaze landed on the river. That is where he spied it, the lion.

It was belly flat in the water. It inched. It crawled little by little, step by step towards an isolated lamb drinking blissfully, standing ignorantly unaware before it. Submerged in the middle of the stream with its back towards the pending beast, the lamb, whom he named after himself, didn't expect the assault. Cats hate water, the boy mused. It was well known. The direction was rare and unlikely. It surprised even the lamb's careful shepherd. Still, it didn't delay his reaction. The boy acted quickly.

Swiftly, he plunged practiced fingers into his well worn satchel and grasped without thought the tenth and final stone tucked safely inside. He whisked it out of the bag and straight into the catch of his tattered shepherd's sling. He twirled it, whipped it side to side across his agile body as the boy raced one step, two steps, three steps in the lion's direction. He blessed it, aimed it, then released. The stone sailed faster than he could perceive, faster than the cat could avoid.

It lunged, the beast. Focused on the vulnerable morsel before him, the cat didn't see the child, didn't see the sling and certainly didn't see the rock hurling airborne in its direction. It didn't see its death, but it certainly felt it. The pain was sharp and the fall to the ground was wet.

* * *

The ground was wet, red, growing redder with each passing moment. It was red like the stain on his hands, the stain running down the blade of the sword clutched tightly between his aging fingers. The old man's face crumpled in anger and weariness, in settled disappointment that constricted the tension in his shoulders. Consciously, he slouched them even while a stark determination hardened the gleam in his eyes. They lifted from the gore before him and slanted over the surrounding soldiers, over the worthless altar smoldering still from sacrifices long since slain and over the impatient figure of his clueless, frustrated king. Feeling the rough wind tease the length of his beard, the prophet took in the monarch's perfectly clean crown, perfectly clean armor and perfectly clean robes. He felt disgust seep into his heart. It seeped deeper than the blood soaking into the seams of his robe.

It was still there the next morning when the voice of the Lord interrupted his daily ablutions. The warmth of his presence made him pause. "You have mourned long enough for Saul. I have rejected him as king." Samuel could almost hear the regret in the sigh, but didn't acknowledge it. He waited patiently for the words to continue. "Fill your flask with olive oil and go to Bethlehem. A man named Jesse who lives there has a son which I have selected. Find him and anoint him as king."

He acted immediately praying along the way, hoping along the way until he found himself sitting across from the man Jesse and his seven sons. They all looked so strong and brave. His hope rose as he eyed the eldest. Surely, Samuel thought stroking his beard, surely, this is the one.

But then, the Lord nudged his heart. But then, he spoke, his calm patience coloring the discourse. A kind of amusement tainted the Lord's next words. "No, I don't judge on the outward appearance but on the heart. I have rejected him. I have rejected all of them."

Confused, Samuel knotted a brow and turned towards the father. Jesse, a plump sort of man, grinned in eager expectation. Samuel frowned hating to crush it. "Is there another?" he asked.

The grin faded quickly and was replaced. An embarrassed chuckle tickled the belly of the small, earnest man. "Well, you see," he muttered rubbing the back of his neck, "my youngest is out in the fields watching my sheep and goats. I figured you'd want the oldest so I left him there."

Samuel nodded as the man trailed off. For a moment, there was an uneasy recess until Jesse realized he was meant to fetch the poor boy. Again, his belly chuckled and again, he rubbed his neck motioning for his wife to find someone (ANYONE!) to retrieve the boy.

Within an hour, he was standing in their midst. He smelt of dung and copper. His clothes were tattered and filthy. Red stained the floor where he stood. It stained his clothes, his hands, his feet but not his eyes. Those, the color of the earth, were clear and curious. "I'm sorry," the boy said. "I'd just—" he wiped his hands on his tunic. "I had to—"

"Do his duty," his mother interrupted eagerly. "He killed a lion, sir, just as we found him. We didn't have time to wash him or…" She quieted as Samuel raised his hand. A look of astonishment quickly passed across his face. It was replaced with a kind of knowing look that wasn't completely hidden by his seriousness.

"Anoint him," the Lord said and that is what he did.

* * *

David could still smell the anointing oil cloaking the curled tendrils of his hair. It made him heady. Mixed in with the smoke of his lamp and the gentle melody he played on his harp, he felt sleep settle into the tenure of his bones. Yet, it didn't relax them. He had hoped his worry would dissipate with the practice but it hadn't. No matter how long he played, the thought lingered. King, it said. What did that mean? It scared him, the possibilities, the responsibilities, the dangers that his anointing held. The thought twiddled about his head as the oils' scent and the lulling tone of his music captured him in its sultry lullaby. The child drifted to sleep nestled in wool and darkness, in a light tainted orange.

* * *

Something orange was glowing in the darkness. True. There were many things glowing in the darkness of her bedroom – an alarm clock, the screen of her radio and a little angel night light plugged into the wall – but this something was different. It danced too making the happenstance hard to ignore, even in the dead of night.

Annoyed, Marissa cracked open an eye and looked out from beneath her bedspread. The eye was green like her father's. It swiveled pass chocolate brown curls and focused in on the golden brown glow bathing her room in tremulous light. It appeared to be coming from her bookshelf, the one nestled perfectly next to her little angel night light. Seeing it caused a sudden thrill to race down Marissa's spine. It curled her fingers to push off her covers. It pointed her feet until they tip toed from her bed to the corner by the door. Reaching the shelf, Marissa stretched up. She lifted a hand to run questing fingers along the roughen spine of the book gleaming brightly above her. In moments, she grabbed it. In moments, she shuffled back to her bed draping the covers strategically over her head.

Once settled, she stared down at its navy blue cover. She could easily read the title. The light made that easy. Marissa let her fingers trace the embossed ornate letters with reverence before she opened the book. Absently, she outlined the intricate B as she flittered through the rest of the light enriched pages. They were thick and heavy, the weight of roughly used sandpaper. Marissa grinned as she felt them, as she found the page she knew was hers to read. That one shone the brightest. Its letters seemed to tremble in the night. She squinted as she peered down into it, as she read the title aloud. "Goliath Challenges the Israelites. The Philistines now mustered their army for battle and camped between Socoh in Judah and Azekad at Ephes-dammin."

The names were hard to read making the task dull and uninteresting. Marissa yawned then rubbed her eyes. She put her hands down on the book, her head upon her hands. She smiled. "Saul countered by gathering his Israelite troops near the valley of…"

* * *

She was resting outside a small little town definitely unlike her own. A small harp sat quietly beside her, while the morning light flittered by, drifted by accompanying clouds that danced like wool upon the sea. The evening meandered sluggishly along riding on its heels in uninterested delight. She realized she would have liked to pass many days like that, flitter the drowsy time away like that if she wasn't interrupted, if Marissa hadn't realized that the meadow wasn't her bed, nor the sky her ceiling, nor the bleating sheep her little angel night light.

Surprised, Marissa sat up and stared. She squinted in the afternoon sun as it unleashed its light over a small range of crag-faced mountains and a lazy gurgling river complaining noisily nearby. That was when she heard it, the sudden silence, the unnatural quiet that seemed to choke the life out of the fantastical meadow about her. The sheep stilled as footsteps raced across the field. They accompanied an overly zealous woman racing in undignified grace in her direction. Uncertain, Marissa stood to her feet as she waited for her to come near. "David!" the woman yelled. "David! Your father wants you. It's urgent. You must come right away!"

At this, Marissa smiled. At this, she flat out grinned.


	2. Chapter 2-1

**According to Marissa  
Chapter Two: Part One**

* * *

"Marissa."

The voice was soft and muffled.

David groaned. He tried to figure out why the voice sounded so unfamiliar, but he was unsuccessful. His sleep was too deep, too soft, too—he scrunched his nose. Then, he turned over and tugged the ruffled comfy covers over his shoulders. They were slipping a little. He didn't like it. Still, he liked the feel of them, the covers. He couldn't remember when they were ever this smooth, this cool, this—He didn't mind this change. In fact, David quite enjoyed it. He smiled and grumbled softly, happily, drowsily.

"Marissa!"

He mumbled slowly. Again, he scrunched his nose. He didn't recognize the name and yet he wasn't perturbed. David sighed and snuggled.

By habit and instinct, David knew that the sun's absence meant that it hadn't risen. He knew that the sun's absence meant that he wasn't overly tardy. And the sun's absence meant that he could easily indulge in the slumber that continued to cloak and lovingly plague him. Still, David sighed, by habit and crafted instinct, he knew that dawn was fast approaching. The sun would rise regardless of his wants and needs, regardless of his sloth and slumber, regardless of comfort's seductive embrace. Accepting defeat, the boy relaxed his nose, wiggled his toes and habitually reached for his harp. He frowned when he couldn't find it. "I was playing it," he groggily remembered. "Yes, I was playing it and thinking about what happened yesterday." His thoughts stuttered for a moment at the memory. Once again, its resulting worry weighed heavily on his mind, dragging it down, pulling it down like a small weight a balloon. King, he thought. He opened his eyes. One day, I'm going to be king.

"Marissa, if you don't get up right now, I'll leave without you. Do you want breakfast or not?" The voice, harsh in its anger, jostled his thoughts. The look of his surroundings, which were not his normal surroundings, quickened his heart. David started. He panicked. He quickly, yet cautiously tore out of the bed tripping over the book that fell clumsily to his feet. He took in the bed's Ratman blankets, posterless frame and frowned. He looked and saw the big blue rug beneath his feet, the large bookcase behind him, the small window, the closet, the pictures and finally the small angel night light tucked secretly in the far corner. He was moving to touch it (just touch, nothing else too obtrusive) when the only door out of the room snapped violently open.

The woman behind it was mad—cross really. In one fell swoop, she took in the book on the floor and the girl tiptoeing toward the book shelf. Her face visibly reddened. "I'm very happy," she said carefully, slowly, frigidly, "that I have a daughter who is as obsessed with reading as much as you are. In fact, I'm delighted, but as I've repeatedly reminded you, doing so right before school is not the appropriate time." Tersely, she pointed to the closet, her chocolate eyes sparking and her chocolate curls bouncing and her slender frame tap, tap, tapping a hasty rhythm with her chocolate slippered foot. The image made the shepherd boy wince.

David swallowed and sped to the sliding doors with much confusion. He wasn't sure what lay behind them and in his haste, he couldn't figure out how to open them enough to find out. He stammered. He—

Recognizing the look, the mysterious woman growled and marched staunchly to where he was standing. She snapped the doors open with a quick movement and tossed him a shirt with the Ratman symbol screened messily upon it. A pair of well patched jeans, some socks and underwear followed suit, pilfered from the dark dresser tucked neatly within the tiny room. Then, she grabbed David by the arm and pushed him down the hall to the bathroom "Please," she said finally. "Please, just take a shower and get dressed. You are going to school today."

With that, she left. David stood there blinking. He was partly embarrassed, partly unnerved. It took him sometime to figure out the bathroom fixtures, but not long enough to be a nuisance. He was ready in under 30 minutes and in her car less than five. Yet, 30 minutes was not long enough. It was too fast for him to take in anything other than the fact that she was staring at him, puzzling over him the entire time. Figuring this was a dream (a most strange one at that) he took it for granted, just like her continued silence.

In quiet acceptance, David followed the dream's leading. He got to school. He was happily ushered into his sixth grade class and socialized with many of the kids who were roughly his same age. With their guidance, he learned spelling, geography and math, history and a bit of science. It wasn't until gym class that he felt something was off. He felt hunger, which was odd. He never remembered feeling hungry in a dream before. Still, he ignored it.

At lunch, he ate the food the lady from before had given him, a baloney sandwich, carrots and one tiny green and red juice box made of poignant fruit called apples. The food was strange yet satisfying. He hated the baloney, but he liked the carrots and squeezing the juice out of the juice box. That he most certainly liked. The squeezing was fun and the tart smell was pleasant. It reminded him of his bed and the candles lit about it. It reminded him of home.

It was at recess, moments after, that David knew something was certainly not right. The moment's name was Ashton Abigail Appleton.

* * *

**\- Calla**


	3. Chapter 2-2

**According to Marissa  
Chapter Two: Part Two**

* * *

Ashton Abigail Appleton was very pink, very popular and very particular. Unlike what you'd expect, Ashton Abigail Appleton didn't like apples, but in fact loved strawberries; which, even though both fruits are small and red with tiny little green stems, they are not at all related to each other whatsoever. But this is irrelevant. What is relevant is the fact that she loved strawberries and that this was mainly because they were sweet and tart just like her. Ashton Abigail Appleton wore strawberries everywhere: in her straight blonde hair, pink pierced ears and most certainly on the delicate lace two-two she always insisted on wearing, even that cold Friday afternoon.

David stared at her fluffy strawberry infested two-two with a look of stark, unconcealed curiosity. His recess tetherball game was momentarily forgotten as he tried to figure out what the material was. It looked too flimsy to play in and much too light to be warm. The crumpled tulle looked too stiff, too awkward and too ungainly to even sit on. David's eyebrows knotted. He pondered the girl stalking gracefully in his direction. He watched her stunned, inquisitive and a little, if he admitted it, apprehensive.

Ashton tiptoed across the basketball court with a large strawberry topped entourage and her strange little hoop skirt encircled about her waist. David swallowed as she approached. He scrutinized as she smiled, as her sleek black jacket shone brightly in the sun, in the brilliant amber light basking his strange, wonderful dream in whitened glory. When she reached him, she stilled. Ashton softly batted her eyes, looked David up and down then immediately tutted. "I see you've taken that spot again, little mouse."

David weakly grinned. He liked her. Her voice was like waterfalls. Its satin tenure seemed to chime when she spoke. It was like the bubbling of his stream at home. And the way her perfect little nose twitched, he liked that too, even as it tilted from him to the tetherball in his hands then over towards his friends. They mutely blinked back at her and didn't move. They were like startled sheep. He wanted to frown at that, but instead, he spoke. "What's wrong with where I'm standing?" he asked sheepishly. His smile turned meek, timid[KN1] and unsure.

"Oh, little Marissa, that," she pointed, "is a game for tomboys. Didn't you know? You want to be popular, don't you? To have everyone like you?"

For a moment, David paused. His anointing tugged at his mind. The dream did too, this world that seemed so foreign to his own. Figuring that this question was the dream's main purpose and that the girl its guiding angel, he answered bluntly and honestly. "Yes," David admitted, "of course I want people to like me. It would make me a good king."

Absently Ashton nodded, grace inclining her head. "Precisely! That's exactly how you become a good king. You are a girl, and I only tell you this, because I enjoy you." She eyed his friends with something akin to disgust, disgust thickly veiled by a painted, condescending sneer. "I want to enjoy your company, but for you to come spend time with me, you have to be popular and to be popular you have to be what everyone likes. For example, I am a ballerina. Everyone likes ballerinas, because they are slim and pretty and graceful and the like. Maybe, you should be a ballerina. Maybe, you could ask your mom to become one. And maybe, you could forsake your current social circle and those clothes you are wearing and most definitely stop playing that tetherball game. For a lack of a better term, that game is grotesquely beneath you."

Grasping his hand, Ashton tried to lead him away when one of David's newfound friends interrupted. He was short with black things he called glasses over his eyes. He said he wore them because his eyes were so horrible that he was nearly blind and that the thickened glass helped him see. He also had black hair that seemed to rise higher and higher and become more and more spikey the longer Ashton continued to speak. The boy's name was Samson, Samson Michaels.

Samson huffed as Ashton turned away. "Tetherball isn't for tomboys," he bellowed. "It's for everyone. And Marissa is our friend, not yours! You don't need to have anything or be anything to have people like you and she doesn't need to do anything or be anything to cause us to like her, either. We like her for who she is!"

David, who was tired of being called a girl, winced as the boy refused to budge, not even when Ashton turned back to glare at him. In spite her beauty, the glare was sharper than any sword he ever wielded and craggier than the mountain before whom his flock regularly grazed. That look said everything. It proved everything, that Samson had said the most precise most obtuse most erroneous thing to say EVER!

David swallowed and Ashton slowly retrieved her hand.

She stepped, no danced, no tiptoed (for she tiptoed everywhere) to confront the stubborn little boy standing up to her. Although he was extremely short, to David it seemed like he stood as tall as any grown man. In truth, he was practically a giant. Still, tactfully, David stepped between them.

At this, the ballerina stopped short. She glowered prettily. "Choosing sides, Marissa?"

David glowered back and stepped away, one step, two steps, three steps, four. He sighed tiredly. "My name is David," he said.

Immediately, Ashton laughed. Their friends rolled their eyes. Some even snickered into their shirtsleeves. "That's your name today, is it? You are so creative, little mouse." Her voice chimed, even through clenched teeth. They were small and white and pearly. Perfect in every way. He liked that. He still liked her.

Ashton saw the admiration in his eyes and pouted. "You've got to be a ballerina, little mouse. You're the perfect little actor, you know? You would be perfect to play the Mouse King this Christmas. What do you say?"

"She doesn't say! That's not her!" Samson yelled.

"How do you know?" Ashton crossed her arms and frowned, "You can't speak for her. Let Marissa speak for herself.

She looked to David. Samson did too, but David baulked. He sighed. He didn't tip toe, he didn't bellow, he didn't do any of that. Instead, he did precisely what he always did when he was confronted, confused and uncertain.

He prayed. David prayed quietly, silent and alone.

* * *

**\- Calla**


	4. Chapter 2-3

**According to Marissa  
Chapter Two: Part Three**

* * *

Ashton huffed.

Unfortunately, David's silent prayer didn't sit well.

In fact…

It didn't sit well at all.

In the second between his "Hello God" and his "Thank You Amen," Ashton Abigail acted. She glowered. She sputtered. She tiptoed up to him then poked him – hard – in the shoulder.

"Hey," she spouted. "I'm talking to you. Are you ignoring me?"

David blinked. At this, he forgot his prayer. He almost, for a moment, forgot even their argument, Ashton's, Samson's and his own. That poke was hard enough to hurt.

Absently, David rubbed the tender spot as his mind began to race. He stopped and thought. He questioned the world around him. This dream… that jab… why did it hurt so much? It shouldn't have. It –it shouldn't have hurt him at all. His mood dropped then following his heart's suddenly sinking stammer. Frustrated, he glared back at the girl, whom froze startled on her toes.

Ashton Abigail Appleton didn't like the look in his eyes. It was much too cold for her tastes. In a pacifying gesture, she sank to her heals and smiled. She waved her hands. "Whoa!" she said. Her cheeks flared to crimson, to a pretty shade of strawberry pink. David gulped. "No worries, little mouse. No offense was intended. Man, you're really good at your glares. It just goes to prove that you're perfect for that role." She laughed and quickly moved to leave. By habit and experience, Ashton knew the longer she talked and the faster she talked, the less likely anyone else would interrupt. By habit and perfected practice, she knew her exit was securely in place. Ashton rambled as she inched away, her accompanying crowd inching off with her.

David watched her leave. He frowned as her banter diminished, but never faded. Even from across the field, he could still hear her: her laughter, her chatter, her curious request. Not completely satisfied, he turned back to his friends. He wanted answers, but with them, there was none to be found. They went back to playing tetherball. Reluctantly, David did too. His shoulder still throbbed, but he let it slide. The ball bounced many times. The sun glittered and shifted. Their laughter rolled with the ever-passing clouds and still, no one mentioned the incident. Not a whisper was uttered, not even between Samson and himself.

Confused, David too stayed silent until it was time to go back in. When he did, though, he found Ashton waiting for him. Against the door, she leaned and glared. He tried to pass her, but her quick movements made that impossible. She grabbed him. By the elbow, her nails dug into his skin. "Listen," she said. "Auditions are Monday. I'll check in with you then. Just convince your mom to join ballet and I'll put a word in with the instructor. That part," she insisted, eyeing him from ear to nose, "is perfect for you. Just think of the headline, Tchaikovsky's The Nutcracker staring Marissa May as the Mouse King. What do you think, eh? Don't you want to be king? It would make you so popular." She winked at him. Then, she left, leaving him stranded in a sea of screaming kids.

David glowered while a tiny voice interrupted his brooding.

"She's using you, you know."

It was Samson. He hadn't left his side. He had heard everything, had seen everything. "She's like that wolf from Aesop's Fables." David blinked down at him. He frowned. Recognizing the disconnect, Samson paused. Their entire friendship was based on their love of books. Marissa, the true Marissa, would have known the reference. His frown deepened as he explained further. He carefully tucked his growing worry behind an emotion David couldn't name. He spoke plainly. "She's flattering you to make you do what she wants, which is to be in her stupid ballet."

Once more, David's heart sank and so did his shoulders. "Oh," he said. His shoulders stayed like that for the rest of the day. For the rest of the day, he couldn't get her words out of his mind. Did being popular make him a good king?

* * *

The woman from before was waiting for him. Outside the school, she was there. The day was over, and she was in her metal machine she called a car. There must have been something in his demeanor for almost instantly her face crumpled in worry. He ignored it, got in and put on the seat belt she insisted that he should wear. About halfway to his babysitter's house, David broke the heavy silence. "What's your name?" he asked cautiously. Instinct and fear made him hesitate. This dream was long and complicated. Yet, he didn't know how delicate it was. If he continued to reveal who he was, would the dream disintegrate? Would it turn into a different scenario? He wasn't sure. He did know one thing. David wanted to finish it. He wanted to know the answer to his question. What would make him a good king?

Marissa's mom heard the question and smiled recognizing the game. It was an old one, one that confirmed her worries. _Yes_, she thought, _something is definitely wrong at school_. Out loud, her answer was simple. "Mom. My name is Mom. What's yours?"

David nodded. Her answer confirmed his suspicions. Still, he hesitated to give his real name.

Feeling his reluctance, Guinevere grinned conspiringly. "Don't worry, your secret is safe with me. I have guarded many a Bible Hero on their quest for answers. The future is a tough place for someone trapped in the body of an eight-year-old."

"The future?" David gasped. "I'm in the future?! Whose body am I trapped in? This isn't a dream?"

Guinevere laughed. "No. This is real. It started as a game between my daughter and me. She likes to read so I though playing pretend would help her solve her problems. 'What if,' I used to say. 'What if Abraham was in your shoes? How would he react to your problem? What if David?'"

David gasped. "That's me!" he said. "I'm David!"

"You are?" Guinevere played along. "Which David? King David, or little boy David? Pre-King David? Post father David? There are so many David's to study you know?" She briefly looked over at her daughter and then started. She could easily see the overwhelmed panic build in her ever-widening gaze. She was almost in tears. Guinevere swiftly pulled over. "What's wrong, Marissa?"

David swallowed. "Do you know all about my life? Why is there so much for you to study? Am I – was I a good King?"

Marissa's mom paused and thought a bit. She put her flashers on. "You were definitely a popular king, though you had your flaws just like everyone else God used in the scriptures."

"But was I good?" David cried. There were too many revelations, too much responsibility being heaped upon his boy sized shoulders. "Did being popular make me good? Who is the Mouse King? Is he good?"

"The Mouse King?" Marissa's Mom went from alarmed to slightly confused at the reference. "The Nutcracker's Mouse King? Heavens no. He's the villain. Who told you that you had to be popular?"

David remained quiet, his uncertainty climbing. Eventually, his small voice broke the silence. "A girl in class said that I have to be popular to be a good king. I have to be popular like she is and to become a ballerina. What is a ballerina?"

Marissa's Mom glared. "Is this why you've been moping around lately. This isn't Ashton's doing, is it?"

Seeing the alarm in her daughter's eyes, Marissa's mom caught herself, took a breath and started again. "What do you think makes you a good… king?" she asked carefully. "We have some time. Let's go to the Library. I think I have a story that can help you."

David shrugged. He was too upset to speak or even wonder what a library was.

* * *

**\- Calla**


	5. Chapter 2-4 (end)

**According to Marissa  
Chapter Two: Part Four**

* * *

Marissa May lived in a small little town not unlike your own. Marissa May's town was so small that everything important fit together on three main streets and half a dozen side streets huddled collectively in a small little circle. In comparison to other villages in her state, her town was rather unremarkable except for one thing, its library. The Greensburg library was the biggest library in the tristate region with uncountable stories (15) and an uncountable number of books (a lot) covering all topics ranging from zanders to aardvarks. David's settled despair completely dissipated at the sight of the grand palace. He was immensely glad that his mother, for all tense and purposes, knew exactly where she was going, because he certainly did not. The children's section was three stories tall and half a mile wide with many little rooms that merged and emerged from each other. Marissa's mom ushered him through nine of them before she found what she needed, her office.

"I was re-reading this the other day," she said softly before grabbing the book from her desk. Effortlessly, she tossed it into his hands. "It might highlight some thoughts on fame and it's dangers for you. Does King David like to read stories? You never said which David you are. How old are you?"

"Ten," David mumbled absently. "I write songs and poems. I don't mind reading the stories of the great heroes, like Joshua and Samson. Is—" He looked down at the small bound parchment's cover. Later, he would learn that it was called a book. He scrunched his nose. "Is this Gatsby a great warrior?" He looked up as Marissa's Mom shook her head.

"No. He's a kind of merchant. He struggles, like you are right now, in defining what makes him great in the eyes of others, more importantly in the eyes of the girl he likes. Maybe you can learn something from his story."

David played with the book. It didn't seem too long. Marissa's mom watched him lovingly for a moment Then she started remembering the time, remembering their game. "Now," she insisted ushering him from the room to the check out desk, to the car and then to her babysitter's front door. She frowned, Guinevere. She pushed him out of the car five minutes later than was deemed safe. She would be late for her job at the hardware store. "Now, that book wasn't written in your time. There are many things in there that you may not recognize so if you have any questions just ask. We'll talk at bedtime, alright?"

David nodded and stepped back. He watched her wave goodbye and drive away. She had just turned the corner when he felt a presence appear behind him. David scrunched his nose smelling something fowl infiltrate the flare of his nostrils before suddenly the book was snatched from his fingers.

"What rubbish did she give you this time, little turd?"

The man behind him looked dirty. He wore the kind of suit his teachers had worn during the day, except his was crumpled where theirs was straight and flat. And, he was wearing a funny hat where their heads weren't covered at all. He smelt something awful where they didn't. David turned around instantly seeing the little white roll of paper dangle between the man's plump lips. The smell was coming from that. That and the little line of smoke drifting up from its ever-burning end.

David held his breath and shoved his answer through clenched teeth. "The Great Gatsby."

"The Great who?" The man scrunched his nose and tossed the tiny book into the trash can on the other side of the lawn. He missed it causing the novel to fall into the partially dried mud bordering its bottom edge. David winced seeing it. He remembered that he was supposed to return that eventually. He was about to say so when he found himself plucked off his feet.

The man looked at him with wary confusion. "You're a funny kind of kid ain't ya? What does your mum give you them books for?"

David, wanting to get away as soon as possible, answered without thinking. "I'm just trying to find out what makes someone great and a good leader. She said that the book would help me. Who are you?"

The man rolled his eyes and blew smoke in his face. "Your babysitter. My wife is out today so you're stuck with your laid off uncle-in-law. Man, you get dumber every day."

"My uncle?" David swallowed kicking his feet midair. The guy was gigantic.

The man snorted. "Yep, just as I always say, dumber every day. I'm stuck with you and junior until 8 o'clock when your mom comes back."

"Oh," David sighed. His feet stopped kicking. "Please put me down?" he asked. He glared. He pleaded. "I need to get my book."

"Oh no, you don't." Marissa's uncle chortled. "You ain't need it. Let me tell you what you need to be a great person. In fact, let me show you."

In exactly two minutes and eight seconds, David found himself sitting on the floor of the man's living room in front of a large metal panel. It looked like a black frozen pond, a mirror that reflected him in weird and unsettling ways.

"TV," his uncle explained. "TV is what makes a man great." He turned it on and a picture of two men yelling at each other appeared. Two seconds later, his uncle changed it showing ten men running around a large room with a brightly painted wooden floor. They were bouncing a small orange ball and throwing it into a couple of high placed hoops found at each end of the narrow hall. David squinted remembering the game. He played it earlier that day in gym class. "Basketball," he remembered. "Playing basketball makes you great?"

"Yes-no," his uncle answered. "The big TV makes me great. Look at that, you can see their pores through their sweat—ha! But no, basketball players are super rich and super famous. Tall and lean, they can do things no one else can. That's why they are paid so well." He blew out smoke and grounded the but into the ashtray on the coffee table. The tray took a moment for him to find, since it was hidden under numerous beer cans and two old pizza boxes. "The greatest of men get paid millions upon millions of dollars just to put a ball through a hoop. Imagine that." His uncle slouched back in his chair, tucked his hat over his eyes and began to doze. But David's comment stopped him.

"Does the God of Israel make them so fast? Is that why they can do those things?

Marissa's uncle snarled. "Please, God didn't do nuthin'. Them just good at what they do."

David cringed. "But… But how does putting a ball in a hoop make someone…" David trailed off watching his uncle's hat dip with his eyes. The man was snoring before David finished his sentence. Frustrated, David moved to turn off the TV when a soft whisper halted his movements.

"Don't!" It hissed from the stairs above his head. "It'll wake him up. Don't worry. I got your book."

David looked up and saw two brown eyes peaking out at him from behind a row of purple painted wooden bars. "You're name isn't Esther by any chance?"

Curious, David shook his head. Slowly, he walked around his sleeping uncle and climbed the stairs. At the top, the second floor consisted of two little bedrooms. One with a big bed that was unkempt and another with a small brown bed that was neat and clean. There were all kinds of toys on the floor and nestled amongst them was a tiny little girl no more than seven at the most. She had Marissa's hair and Marissa's nose, but not her eyes.

"My name is Christine," she said. "Who are you?"

"David," the boy answered.

"I'm your cousin. Your mom drops you off here after school because she has another job at a store that sells building materials. We spend a lot of time together."

David furrowed his eyebrows. "You know who I am?" He paused and corrected himself. "I mean. You know who I am not."

Christine smiled smugly. She nodded. "Yes and no. Marissa switches places often. She told me her secret long ago. She said, it started about three years ago. We don't know why, but its cool. She switches places with people of the Bible. You come here and she goes there."

David puzzled. "What is the Bible?"

He sat before her, which made the little girl squirm. Quickly, much quicker than he initially accredited her, she got up, closed the bedroom door and retrieved a book from her own impressive library lining an entire wall of her room. The book was small and black. She looked at him a moment, before she opened it to a particular page. She started reading it to him out loud. It was the story of Abraham. After a paragraph or two, she turned the pages again and it didn't take long for him to recognize that she was reading this time about the judge, Deborah.

Once more she smiled, "All of God's greatest achievements were written down and put into a book for everyone to read. Even you are mentioned in here."

"Am I?" David asked. "So, what my mom said is true. I am famous!"

Christine nodded. "Oh yes, one of many. I've met a whole bunch of people: Elijah, Joshua, Moses… Why are you reading the Great Gatsby?" she asked sitting up.

David shrugged. "I want to know how to be a good king. Samuel, a prophet where I am from, anointed me to be the next king yesterday and… I'm scared. Since I have been here, I have been told I need to be popular, that I need to have a big TV and put a ball in a very high hoop to be a great man. Is this how I become a good king?"

Christine looked at him. There was a question in her eyes. He could see it. "Have you prayed about it?

When David lowered his head, she nodded. "Well, my aunt is right. This book would help you define somethings. Still, "The Great Gatsby" isn't my favorite." She made a face. She pulled it out from underneath her stuffed rabbit named Hazel. "But it does bring up some questions that you need to ask for yourself."

"And what is that?" David asked.

"Do you want to be good or do you want to be great? Those two words, they are not the same. And who exactly do you want to be favored by? Whose opinion of you is the most important, your opinion of yourself, others' opinion of you or God's opinion of you? Once you can answer that, you will find exactly what you need to become a good king."

With that, she placed both books in his hands and left him to read.

David was tempted to flitter through the Bible in his hands, to find the ending of the story for himself, but something told him that he would regret it. Cautiously, he placed it back on Christine's shelf and then settled to read the novel in his hand. He was a third of the way through when Marissa's mother came to pick him up. Between pitiful goodbyes, dinner and one long and very intricate bedtime story, David's mind wandered and pondered over Christine's' words. By the time sleep rose up to claim him, David regretted not looking in that book of books. Maybe the adult version of himself would have known what to do. That evening, he sang. That evening, he prayed.

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**Zander: noun, ****a pike perch (_Stizostedion lucioperca_) of central Europe related to the walleye. A type of fish.  
**

**\- Calla**


End file.
